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ladylisse.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hetalia2010-03-09 06:20 pm
ladylisse.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-03-09 06:20 pm
Entry tags:
fic: Model Protectorate
title: Model Protectorate
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladylisse
characters: Denmark, Sweden, driveby Germany
rating: high PG-13 for the topic
warnings: recent, unpleasant history; unfunny; impressive amounts of swearing
summary: Fall 1943. Denmark doesn't approve of this bullshit.
model protectorate
There's something offensive about being Germany's "model protectorate."
Denmark's no one's anything. He's his own damn country. He's a hell of a lot older and stronger and all-around better than just about everyone else in the world, in a completely objective and awesome and non-eugenic kind of way. Even if he were the type to pick flowers or bake cookies or whatever it is well-behaved nations do, he'd still be insulted by the implications that he's the ideal minion of some baby upstart of a country with delusions of grandeur and way too many tanks.
He's not too fond of Germany, in case that wasn't obvious.
But the king says they have to work with the situation they have, so Denmark puts up with it. He surrenders quietly, seething all the while. He dangles his butter and meat under Germany's nose and makes lewd jokes until the negotiators on both sides of the table are telling him to hand over the agricultural products already. He doesn't so much censor the radio as put his hands over his ears and go "lalala" a lot.
And hey, when he figures out who tried to set fire to his synagogue in Copenhagen, he slaps a fine on them instead of kicking the ever-loving shit out of them, because he's a model protectorate like that.
Then Stalingrad happens and it's just. Too. Much. It's too obvious that Germany's losing, that this whole war is a big joke, and Denmark's never had the best impulse control. There are strikes and riots that spiral into firefights, which turn into curfews, and the death penalty gets brought up just because a few people maybe sabotaged a couple things, and then Germany goes and takes some of Denmark's people hostage and that's it. That's the last fucking straw.
The whole government resigns en masse. Denmark may or may not tell Germany to watch out for Russia as he follows his king out the door, and he may or may not guffaw at the memory of the other nation's pained expression for the rest of the day.
Suddenly he's not a model protectorate anymore.
And he's fine with that. Really he is. "Protectorate" is just a fancy way to say "occupied country," and Denmark's never been the type for cushioning nasty truths with prettied-up words. There are a bunch of damn Germans running things now, and while he's not happy about it, at least that's honest. At least he can distinguish the people he needs to punch in the face.
He thinks all these things right up until the head of his Social Democrats comes running up to the resistance and passes along information that's so godawful that euphemisms don't do a thing to hide it, and Denmark winds up collapsing in his chair as if all the strength has gone out of him.
He's just another occupied country now, without any pretty linguistic flourishes or special considerations, and there's this thing that happens to occupied countries.
Parts of them, anyway. The non-model parts.
Seven thousand parts, in his case.
"No," he says. "You know what? No. Fuck this. Fuck this."
He's back out of his seat and halfway to the door before Hedtoft manages to collect himself and ask where he's going.
Denmark doesn't bother to answer.
If he doesn't fix this, there won't be much point.
*
It's been a long, long time since Sweden's had to listen to a word Denmark says, and maybe that's why he makes Denmark wait before he sees him, the stupid ungrateful little shit. Denmark paces back and forth across the office in the middle of Stockholm, stomping down hard on the carpeting in an effort to do as much petty property damage as possible, and tries not to kick the furniture every time he hears a clock chime.
Time. He's running out of time.
Finally Sweden comes in, all stoic neutrality. By this point Denmark mostly wants to punch him in the face too, but he can't.
"I need your help," he says instead.
Sweden sits down behind the desk and looks up at him. "With what?"
He tries to say the euphemisms, but he can't. He can't even keep his voice level, because screw Germany for being complicit in this and screw Sweden for acting like there's anything left to be neutral about. Screw the countries who roll over and comply, even though he knows they're not all model protectorates, that not all of them have the freedom Denmark does, that they aren't all blond and blue-eyed and whatever else an ideal person is supposed to be in certain messed-up philosophies and that the comparison isn't fucking fair. He doesn't care. Screw them all.
"You fucking know what," he snarls.
"The resettlement."
Denmark leans on the desk between them, looming over Sweden. "If that's what you want to call shipping people off to die, then yeah. Sure. The fucking resettlement."
Sweden glances at the hands on his desk. Denmark thinks of a time when Sweden was afraid of him and almost longs for it before he stops himself, because that's too close to something he has absolutely no desire to get acquainted with, to being a model protectorate. He swallows his pride and lets his hands slide off the desk and even shoves them deep in his coat pockets for good measure.
"I can't hand them over," he says, and shit, now he's about to start babbling. "I don't know what I'm going to do if you don't have any ideas, because I'm out of them and everyone else is too scared to do anything or doesn't care. You know that? I think some of them don't care." Why the hell can't he stop talking? He sounds desperate, probably because he is desperate, but Sweden doesn't need to know that.
He should've done worse than fined those people who tried to burn his synagogue. He should've made a fucking example of them.
But that's protectorate thinking too, isn't it?
"Sweden." His voice is breaking. He stares at the floor. The ugly newly-scuffed carpeting is blurring in front of him and fuck, fuck, he's going to cry. He's not sure he really cares all that much. "Sweden, what the hell do I do?"
"Bring them here," Sweden says.
Denmark looks up at him.
"Bring. Them. Here."
"With what, a fucking bridge?" He's not stupid enough to yell, but he wants to so bad. "It's seven thousand people, how the fuck do I do that?"
Sweden's face is so impassive that Denmark just knows there's something going on in that twisty mind of his. Finally he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose and looks up at Denmark with a familiar expression, which is to say the one that suggests he's the only person in the room with half a brain.
"Boats."
Denmark stares at him.
Sweden takes a deep breath and speaks. Multiple syllables and everything. A change in tone, which would be slight irritation from anyone else but might as well be screaming from him.
"You're a Viking, aren't you?"
It takes a moment for the growing panic to recede, but then Denmark feels a laugh bubbling up inside him. It's completely insane, but it's also the only chance he has, and that means it has to work.
He leans across the desk, hauls Sweden up by his collar, and mashes a kiss against his mouth that almost ends in broken noses. "I have fucking boats!" he crows, and then drops Sweden back into his seat and takes off running.
Of course it will work.
Denmark has always been at home on the water.
*
And the big miracle is that it does work. There's nothing for German to find except a lot of empty apartments and uncooperative neighbors. Denmark trots along with him because he's told to, making comments about how nice Stockholm is at this time of year, probably much better than Siberia, which is where he's heard Russia likes to send people. But then again, he bets Germany knows all about Russia, doesn't he?
Germany stops in his tracks, which makes Denmark almost slam into him, and turns to look at the other country. Denmark laces his fingers behind his head and smirks.
"To think I used to like you," Germany mutters.
Denmark's smirk widens to a grin, except it's not friendly. It's something he hasn't used in a while, not since he was terrorizing coastal villages. "To think I thought you weren't a murdering bastard," he chirps back. "Wonder what gave us those ideas, huh?"
And yeah, he's going to catch hell for that, above and beyond the boats and the impromptu rescue and the seven thousand pieces of him that are safe enough with Sweden, who maybe isn't half as neutral as he pretends to be. Denmark's probably going to pay and he's completely okay with that.
"Model protectorate," he says to Germany's face, heavy on the sarcasm. "Remember?"
He's pretty sure he means it, too. He thinks he and his people are some kind of ideal.
Just not the one Germany thought they were.
--
wtf is this:
This was originally a kinkmeme fill for a request about Denmark, Sweden, and the rescue of the Danish Jews. I took a bit of artistic license, because personifications of countries and Very Serious History are hard to fit together otherwise, but I tried to keep the general gist as much as possible. The general gist, obviously, being that a big chunk of Denmark was completely fucking awesome.
author:
ladylissecharacters: Denmark, Sweden, driveby Germany
rating: high PG-13 for the topic
warnings: recent, unpleasant history; unfunny; impressive amounts of swearing
summary: Fall 1943. Denmark doesn't approve of this bullshit.
There's something offensive about being Germany's "model protectorate."
Denmark's no one's anything. He's his own damn country. He's a hell of a lot older and stronger and all-around better than just about everyone else in the world, in a completely objective and awesome and non-eugenic kind of way. Even if he were the type to pick flowers or bake cookies or whatever it is well-behaved nations do, he'd still be insulted by the implications that he's the ideal minion of some baby upstart of a country with delusions of grandeur and way too many tanks.
He's not too fond of Germany, in case that wasn't obvious.
But the king says they have to work with the situation they have, so Denmark puts up with it. He surrenders quietly, seething all the while. He dangles his butter and meat under Germany's nose and makes lewd jokes until the negotiators on both sides of the table are telling him to hand over the agricultural products already. He doesn't so much censor the radio as put his hands over his ears and go "lalala" a lot.
And hey, when he figures out who tried to set fire to his synagogue in Copenhagen, he slaps a fine on them instead of kicking the ever-loving shit out of them, because he's a model protectorate like that.
Then Stalingrad happens and it's just. Too. Much. It's too obvious that Germany's losing, that this whole war is a big joke, and Denmark's never had the best impulse control. There are strikes and riots that spiral into firefights, which turn into curfews, and the death penalty gets brought up just because a few people maybe sabotaged a couple things, and then Germany goes and takes some of Denmark's people hostage and that's it. That's the last fucking straw.
The whole government resigns en masse. Denmark may or may not tell Germany to watch out for Russia as he follows his king out the door, and he may or may not guffaw at the memory of the other nation's pained expression for the rest of the day.
Suddenly he's not a model protectorate anymore.
And he's fine with that. Really he is. "Protectorate" is just a fancy way to say "occupied country," and Denmark's never been the type for cushioning nasty truths with prettied-up words. There are a bunch of damn Germans running things now, and while he's not happy about it, at least that's honest. At least he can distinguish the people he needs to punch in the face.
He thinks all these things right up until the head of his Social Democrats comes running up to the resistance and passes along information that's so godawful that euphemisms don't do a thing to hide it, and Denmark winds up collapsing in his chair as if all the strength has gone out of him.
He's just another occupied country now, without any pretty linguistic flourishes or special considerations, and there's this thing that happens to occupied countries.
Parts of them, anyway. The non-model parts.
Seven thousand parts, in his case.
"No," he says. "You know what? No. Fuck this. Fuck this."
He's back out of his seat and halfway to the door before Hedtoft manages to collect himself and ask where he's going.
Denmark doesn't bother to answer.
If he doesn't fix this, there won't be much point.
It's been a long, long time since Sweden's had to listen to a word Denmark says, and maybe that's why he makes Denmark wait before he sees him, the stupid ungrateful little shit. Denmark paces back and forth across the office in the middle of Stockholm, stomping down hard on the carpeting in an effort to do as much petty property damage as possible, and tries not to kick the furniture every time he hears a clock chime.
Time. He's running out of time.
Finally Sweden comes in, all stoic neutrality. By this point Denmark mostly wants to punch him in the face too, but he can't.
"I need your help," he says instead.
Sweden sits down behind the desk and looks up at him. "With what?"
He tries to say the euphemisms, but he can't. He can't even keep his voice level, because screw Germany for being complicit in this and screw Sweden for acting like there's anything left to be neutral about. Screw the countries who roll over and comply, even though he knows they're not all model protectorates, that not all of them have the freedom Denmark does, that they aren't all blond and blue-eyed and whatever else an ideal person is supposed to be in certain messed-up philosophies and that the comparison isn't fucking fair. He doesn't care. Screw them all.
"You fucking know what," he snarls.
"The resettlement."
Denmark leans on the desk between them, looming over Sweden. "If that's what you want to call shipping people off to die, then yeah. Sure. The fucking resettlement."
Sweden glances at the hands on his desk. Denmark thinks of a time when Sweden was afraid of him and almost longs for it before he stops himself, because that's too close to something he has absolutely no desire to get acquainted with, to being a model protectorate. He swallows his pride and lets his hands slide off the desk and even shoves them deep in his coat pockets for good measure.
"I can't hand them over," he says, and shit, now he's about to start babbling. "I don't know what I'm going to do if you don't have any ideas, because I'm out of them and everyone else is too scared to do anything or doesn't care. You know that? I think some of them don't care." Why the hell can't he stop talking? He sounds desperate, probably because he is desperate, but Sweden doesn't need to know that.
He should've done worse than fined those people who tried to burn his synagogue. He should've made a fucking example of them.
But that's protectorate thinking too, isn't it?
"Sweden." His voice is breaking. He stares at the floor. The ugly newly-scuffed carpeting is blurring in front of him and fuck, fuck, he's going to cry. He's not sure he really cares all that much. "Sweden, what the hell do I do?"
"Bring them here," Sweden says.
Denmark looks up at him.
"Bring. Them. Here."
"With what, a fucking bridge?" He's not stupid enough to yell, but he wants to so bad. "It's seven thousand people, how the fuck do I do that?"
Sweden's face is so impassive that Denmark just knows there's something going on in that twisty mind of his. Finally he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose and looks up at Denmark with a familiar expression, which is to say the one that suggests he's the only person in the room with half a brain.
"Boats."
Denmark stares at him.
Sweden takes a deep breath and speaks. Multiple syllables and everything. A change in tone, which would be slight irritation from anyone else but might as well be screaming from him.
"You're a Viking, aren't you?"
It takes a moment for the growing panic to recede, but then Denmark feels a laugh bubbling up inside him. It's completely insane, but it's also the only chance he has, and that means it has to work.
He leans across the desk, hauls Sweden up by his collar, and mashes a kiss against his mouth that almost ends in broken noses. "I have fucking boats!" he crows, and then drops Sweden back into his seat and takes off running.
Of course it will work.
Denmark has always been at home on the water.
And the big miracle is that it does work. There's nothing for German to find except a lot of empty apartments and uncooperative neighbors. Denmark trots along with him because he's told to, making comments about how nice Stockholm is at this time of year, probably much better than Siberia, which is where he's heard Russia likes to send people. But then again, he bets Germany knows all about Russia, doesn't he?
Germany stops in his tracks, which makes Denmark almost slam into him, and turns to look at the other country. Denmark laces his fingers behind his head and smirks.
"To think I used to like you," Germany mutters.
Denmark's smirk widens to a grin, except it's not friendly. It's something he hasn't used in a while, not since he was terrorizing coastal villages. "To think I thought you weren't a murdering bastard," he chirps back. "Wonder what gave us those ideas, huh?"
And yeah, he's going to catch hell for that, above and beyond the boats and the impromptu rescue and the seven thousand pieces of him that are safe enough with Sweden, who maybe isn't half as neutral as he pretends to be. Denmark's probably going to pay and he's completely okay with that.
"Model protectorate," he says to Germany's face, heavy on the sarcasm. "Remember?"
He's pretty sure he means it, too. He thinks he and his people are some kind of ideal.
Just not the one Germany thought they were.
--
wtf is this:
This was originally a kinkmeme fill for a request about Denmark, Sweden, and the rescue of the Danish Jews. I took a bit of artistic license, because personifications of countries and Very Serious History are hard to fit together otherwise, but I tried to keep the general gist as much as possible. The general gist, obviously, being that a big chunk of Denmark was completely fucking awesome.
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I already commented on the meme, but I'll do it here too. I absolutely love the direction you took this prompt with the emphasis on being a model protectorate. You have everyone's attitudes down just so perfectly, especially Denmark, and I love how Sweden reacts to the whole situation. Neutral indeed, baha!
My favorite bit is the very end though. I absolutely adore that very last line.
Again, thank you so much for filling this! ♥ I've only requested things on the meme a few times and you're the only one who's ever taken one of my prompts and actually finished it. And how lucky was I to get such a talented writer, eh?
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(also, um, may I friend you please? You seem like a very cool person)
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(Off-topic, this is very wrong of me, but when I read "Denmark, Sweden, driveby Germany", I pictured Germany doing a driveby yelling at Denmark & Sweden and the two Nordics all "WTF?")
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